


Mechanics of Time

by turnyourankle



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-16
Updated: 2006-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future-fic, post 513. Justin doesn't remember as much as he'd want to from his first year away. He knows from ticket stubs and photographs tucked into family albums that there were many visits. It almost seems as if he'd never really left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mechanics of Time

Justin doesn't remember as much as he'd want to from his first year away. He knows from ticket stubs and photographs tucked into family albums that there were many visits. It almost seems as if he'd never really left. There was holiday after holiday each seemingly craving his presence at home more than the previous. Deb and his mother wanting to know what was going on first hand, Daphne dropping by whenever she could afford to.   
  
It would be a lie to say that his memory faded, he can see scenes in his mind: endless gallery openings - none of which were exclusively his own - how he was struck with the flu in November and lay buried under a mound of blankets as his roommate avoided him fervently.  
  
But he doesn't seem to recall the important stuff.   
  
He can remember the glares his roommate would shoot him when he'd scared away one of her conquests. Her palm flat against the side of her hip and fingers drumming silently against the soft fabric of her worn jeans. Her mad ramblings about some specific thing that Justin was supposed to do. And even though she repeated the same charade for a week and he could recite it word for word for two weeks following that, he doesn't know what all the fuss was about. All he seems to remember now is what shade of red her chipped nail polish was.  
  
All in all it seems to him like there is too little Brian in his memories from that year.   
  
He remembers frantic fucks and the springs in his thin mattress pressing against his back and against his chest. He remembers the first weekend Brian visited and the way his skull kept slamming into the headboard of the bed when they fucked.   
  
He remembers the slow fucks at Brian's loft; when their bodies would be plastered against one another: fingers entwined and cheeks flushed, knuckles white from the strain. He remembers waking up in the middle of the night only to look at Brian's closed eyes and to place a hand on his chest, knowing that it wouldn't be pushed away once Brian woke up. Knowing that they were together at that moment and trying to print all the details into his mind for later - when they wouldn't be. The uncertainty of when they'd see each other next was still present, and more seemed to be better.  
  
But he doesn't seem to remember Brian as he was that year. None of his words, none of the fights, none of the ad campaigns he struggled with and had to cancel visits for. He doesn't remember if Brian had introduced himself at all the art shows he accompanied him to or if he stood next to Justin waiting, listening to him talk about the choice between azure and turquoise.  
  
He knows Brian must've told him a million things. About Michael and Gus and Kinnetik. But Justin only remembers hearing about Michael from Michael and Lindsay's excited tone whenever there was something new about Gus that she couldn't wait to share. News about Kinnetik only seems to have come to him through Ted or Cynthia whenever he'd call Brian's office.  
  
There's Brian shifting his weight uneasily on the lumpy couch inhabiting the center of the rundown living room of Justin's first own apartment in New York. Brian's fingertips across his brow when his head was buried in ad campaign papers. And sometimes Justin thought that if he tried hard enough he'd probably still be able to feel Brian’s teeth on his lips, against his neck and chest. Skin flushed and almost bruised. There were a lot of teeth that year.   
  
But he doesn't think that's enough.   
  
Justin doesn't even remember when the first year ended. He was in the middle of scheduling a show - where all three of his pieces that were set to appear were sold - when he'd realized that not only was his calendar outdated but he'd also missed his one year anniversary with the city.  
  
The passing of weeks and months had started to be marked by color filled canvases, business cards, reviews and handshakes. Justin didn't use Brian's presence - or lack thereof - to keep track of the time that passed. He didn't need to; time seemed to disappear with or without him there.  
  
By the fifth year the meaning of time had slipped through Justin's fingers altogether. He didn't see Brian nearly enough to call him his partner and the idea of ring clad fingers and holding hands had vanished from Justin's thoughts altogether. He didn't need a definition for what they were anymore. They would always find each other - whether it be in the Pitts or New York or a hotel room in Paris or Barcelona or Milan - and they would just be. Justin couldn't seem to explain it and he stopped looking for words. People's inquiring looks didn't stir him when he knew that he would always find himself with Brian when it mattered.  
  
Justin would find himself awake on all of their nights together. Listening to Brian's heavy breathing and watching his chest heave effortlessly before grasping a pen and the sketchpad he reserved for the moments in between.   
  
Justin never showed Brian the sketches. When he flips through the pages and looks at the dates - the last being five months ago - he tries to remember what came before and after each drawing. It doesn't take long before he gives up. He can remember days, moments but they all blur into one another giving no hint as to where they belong in his timeline of drawings.   
  
His fingertips graze the coarse paper of the last drawing. The pad isn't filled and Justin bites his lower lip when he thinks that it never will be. The last sketch is charcoal and rough - rougher than most - it looks somewhat hurried and Justin wonders if he would've rushed if he knew that this would be his last drawing of Brian. Brian is awake - the only one where he is, ironies of ironies - leaning back onto propped pillows, an unlit cigarette perched between his lips, his eyes looking at Justin from the page.  
  
The fine hair on Justin's arms start to rise and it pains him that he can't remember that day. There was nothing special about it besides the fact that they'd been able to clear their schedules and have one night together. He hadn't heard from Brian for weeks after; something that was no longer unusual. He didn't think that it would be the last time he saw him (but then again who ever does?). He'd been in London when he heard from some hospital in Boston. Brian's papers had no next-of-kin listed and Justin was - to his surprise - his in-case-of-emergency person of choice. But when he showed up in Pittsburgh only to tell Michael and Debbie, and when Melanie's voice replaced Lindsay's wailing voice over the phone he knew why Brian had picked him.   
  
He hadn't known more than what the hospital was willing to say as he wasn't related - car accident, frontal crash. He learned specifics two years later he read an article about a man who turned his life around after a DUI that had craved the life of an ad exec. A prison stay, probation, therapy: he'd learned his lesson. Justin managed to see the smiling faces of two children sitting next to the man in the picture before he followed his urge to find the nearest toilet bowl and throw up.  
  
The air in his room starts to weigh down on his shoulders and Justin's chest tightens for an instant. A sharp intake of breath before he gets up to open a window. He stands looking at the commotion outside as New Year's Eve ticks into New Year's Day, marking the beginning of his tenth year away from Pittsburgh.  
  
He can hear the countdown beginning from the street below and he holds his breath as champagne bottles are uncorked and fireworks light up the horizon.  
  
His grip tightens around his frame as he crosses his arms. Exhaling he waits to see if he feels any different. If a new year will make it seem more real - that he's alone for good this time. But it doesn't feel any different than any of the other nights without Brian. If he presses his eyes shut he can imagine Brian's hot breath against his ear, Brian's chin on his shoulder - despite the considerable height difference - and Brian's palms rubbing the sides of Justin's hips, thumbs hooking into his boxers. As if it were only a matter of time before he'd actually feels those things again.  
  
Brian once said that it was only time. And when Justin takes a hitching breath he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he has finally understood.


End file.
